Of it to thee

I am doing believing

and it is anointing

my otherwise destiny

towards death.

The hands of my brain are cuffed

with expectation’s bind.

I stink with assumptions

and reek with blind attention’s grip.

What has to come as reprieve. . .

must clobber me

with obvious bludgeons

for wakeup’s release.

It must come on to me

and symbolize the truth

yet there I am to wallop,

holding a readied pose

for doing so.

Please be the trick

to liberate my mind

by coming forth in layers

of hot welts applied,

raised thick membranes

appearing calloused,

built up over time.

Make my pretend

by awareness

into the practice of this

as my newly created intention

disguised towards relief.

I am no space or consideration

for this moment as now.

I am consumed and absorbed

in doing something else,

so much so

that my hands are tied

in re-enactment.

I am into it

as my own

knot’s ambivalent ambition.

I believed,

as a way of being,

my unconscious knottiness

but my attachment to believing

severely limits me.

Believing has given me layers

of scar tissue resistance.

I am a due process

removed from being present,

like a procession of symbols

all in a conveyor belt flow,

adding up to a parade

of iconic life,

coming by way of me.

My life is bleachers

of observation as this means.

It is a sort of a rear view mirror

of perspective on things

as dangling dice are escorts

for my belated now.

There is duck-tape

of politically appropriate language

over my mouth

and my tongue is as numb

as the useless trigger on a gun

soaked in muddle-dom.

Sure, I’m packing

and my bullets are countless.

They pass as casings

chuck full in a migraine barrel

being poured over boredom

and into my head.

I am almost fully buried

in a beach of bullet-head sand.

I stink without limbs to help

or get myself set free.

I am a blob

much towards the rot of it

but unable to draw

condors of death to me

as the tear/slash

and then swallow

yet I am in hopes

of exchanging a few words

with these birds

before my up-to-no-good passing.

I am only a thought

riding my dismantlement

into the ground

while a summational grinding

works to swallow me up.

Surely you would surmise

that I would think these words

some how then had wings.

That there is some favorable assent

as any slight

of aspiration would bring.

But no, I am only furthered

in fogging my glasses.

And all of this as billboards

of what I am saying,

falls layering blindly upon me,

and it bleeds a weighted-ness

over on to my fading gaze.

It is a soggy constrictor

in its muffled heaviness

absorbing time.

This is a consensual suffocation

as a mandate to live on

without seeing or being seen.

It is a muted existence

beyond a eunuch’s sole desire.

I am, of course,

dramatically imagining it

this way

as a dimension of extremes

to say what I feel

but it has no life like this,

yet it is ongoing . . .

I am an underground fire

with no smoke to reveal.

The air I need

burns up

as absorbed into my past,

leaving me

on the edge of no return,

no forwarding,

no sense of wholeness,

to secretly embrace me.

I am a dimension less

and shy of presence

than I aspire.

I could plead

for a morality to intervene.

I could cite a medical

or religious premise

to appear

possibly to appease

but no . . .

Knowledge will not save me

from this fate.

I got myself

into a long line

of information received

and could not see any more

of the beginning of it,

could not be sure

when it will breathlessly end.

It is just an endless shuffling

of bloated brainy buoyancy

and toothless topics

that bob while floating away.

I have become

my own tapeworm

of intelligence,

that has out grown its master

but by compacting

though not outsized.

There is no escape

but residency.

There is no reward

but to drag

my fetal awareness along.

We are

our slippery self-induced slide

by descending

from noun to verb,

from object into action

of our own

self-conscious attention.

We are gathering

gobs of mucous

gutturally spitting at the sun.

We are our own gravity,

grabbing our genitals

while looking askance.

We are endearing

into the headlights

of our own passing.

We are road-kill

on a skillet for a later course

of the same ongoing eatable

awareness meal.

I bet you my life

is as worthless

as yours is to me.

This, as my obsession,

passes the time

in a preoccupied pitiful emptiness

yet in a solemnly respectful way.

These words you read

are an appeal,

an S.O.S.

put out to the universe of you.

If you have it . . .

please live it alive.

Eventually,

across all the seas in time,

it will get to me.

A throb a thump a pulse

a beat a quiver a nod

a twitch a jerk a jolt

or a blink, to which

I will then answer the call.

And none of this then

will be as blather

that has preceded as me.

For now will matter

not as mass

nor an exit strategy to indulge,

nor as form

nor an insult on display.

Eventually your living it alive

will keep for me,

our point of oneness in living.

But please

do not know of any of this

as your now,

for it is as an utmost

and complete distraction

in that light.

Just be . . .

and let me become

of it to thee.